_Or the "Lament of Thomas Flavell, or Lavell," c. 1660._
On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woeful plight, Through my sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night, Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go, By the blessed sun! 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo!
When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round-- 'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go, And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.
They are altered girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and high, With their hair-bags and their top-knots--for I pass their buckles by; But it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so, That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo.
'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still, And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill; And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady should be lying dead and low, And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.
[109] Lady Ferguson, in her Life of her husband, says that he was the true author of this poem, but that as Fox had a hand in it, he allowed it to be attributed to him. Sir Samuel dedicated his poems to Fox in 1880.
Oh, many a day have I made good ale in the glen, That came not of stream or malt--like the brewing of men. My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above, And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my love.
Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field, That I was not near from terror my angel to shield. She stretched forth her arms--her mantle she flung to the wind, And swam o'er Loch Lene her outlawed lover to find.
Oh would that a freezing, sleet-winged tempest did sweep, And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep! I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,-- With her hand round my waist I'd fear not the wind or the wave.
'Tis down by the lake where the wild-tree fringes its sides The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides; I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along, The birds go to sleep by the sweet, wild twist of her song.
If thou wilt come with me to the County of Leitrim, Flower of Nut-brown Maids-- Honey of bees and mead to the beaker's brim I'll offer thee, Nut-brown Maid. Where the pure air floats o'er the swinging boats of the strand, Under the white-topped wave that laves the edge of the sand, There without fear we will wander together, hand clasped in hand, Flower of Nut-brown Maids.